The Glasnost Conspiracy

By B. Jay Reich

Glasnost—Arnie Rosen's family and children are killed as Charles Van Damme's men grab the file that proves that Van Damme, Chief of the CIA' European Division, is collaborating with the Russians. Van Damme's men catch Arnie, but he escapes, only to be placed in an institution which is a CIA front, controlled by Van Damme. He escapes, again, to Key West, where Marquand, his old CIA mentor, arranges for him to get safe passage to Europe, where he can catch Van Damme engaging in espionage with the Russians. He and Van Damme's dupe, Otto Gruhaber, a computer genius who is unwittingly enlisted in Van Damme's plot, escape back to the US, where Arnie's friend, Mark Hickey appears to give them safe conduct to DC. Their purpose is to thwart Van Damme's appointment as new CIA head. But Hickey's help ends in disaster. They escape, fight their way through a cordon of Capitol Security, Van Damme's men and the FBI, to expose Van Damme in the Senate hearing room, where Rosen's enemy is to be confirmed. Van Damme attempts an escape, but is captured by Arnie, and discredited. But is rosen a hero, or did he destroy the only man capable of stopping the GLASNOST CONSPIRACY?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496901149

B. Jay Reich

After attending Cornell and the University Of Pennsylvania School Of Law, Bob Reich practiced tax law in both New York and California. Subsequently, he became a real estate syndicator and developer and, for the past sixteen years, has advised clients in financial and estate planning in his offices in South Florida. He resides in Fort Lauderdale with his wife, Mary, and cat, Furgie. Bob is an avid skier and aspiring tennis player. Other hobbies include making historical dioramas, learning to play the accordion and, of course, writing.

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© 2014 B. Jay Reich. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/06/2018

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0113-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0115-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0114-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906618

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Glasnost Chapter 2

Glasnost Chapter 3

Glasnost Chapter 4

Glasnost Chapter 5

Glasnost Chapter 6

Glasnost Chapter 7

Glasnost Chapter 8

Glasnost Chapter 9

Glasnost Chapter 10

Glasnost Chapter 11

Glasnost Chapter 12

Glasnost Chapter 13

Glasnost Chapter 14

Glasnost Chapter 15

Glasnost Chapter 16

Glasnost Chapter 17

Glasnost Chapter 18

Glasnost Chapter 19

Glasnost Chapter 20

Glasnost Chapter 21

Glasnost Chapter 22

Glasnost Chapter 23

Glasnost Chapter 24

Glasnost Chapter 25

Glasnost Chapter 26

Glasnost Chapter 27

Glasnost Chapter 28

Glasnost Chapter 29

Glasnost Chapter 30

Glasnost Chapter 31

Glasnost Chapter 32

Glasnost Chapter 33

Glasnost Chapter 34

Glasnost Chapter 35

Glasnost Chapter 36

Glasnost Chapter 37

Glasnost Chapter 38

Glasnost Chapter 39

Epilogue

Dear reader:

This story was crafted between 1992 and 1994. Unfortunately, from my standpoint (although fine for world peace), the cold war was over and we and Russia and its newly freed republics were engaged in a love affair known as glasnost. For years, I grew up with the belief that the Soviet Union was not to be trusted. I could never quite shake this attitude, even as those more optimistic than I proclaimed that Russia was no longer a threat. However, that was not the time to introduce a cold war novel. Who would have published it—or read it? My sense is that now, with Putin’s strong-arm tactics reminiscent of earlier days of Soviet aggression, the timing is right for my long overdue manuscript. I hope that you agree.

Sincerely,

B. J. Reich

CHAPTER 1

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A rnie Rosen pushed aside a thick stack of highlighted National Security Agency transcripts, tipping a silver-framed picture near his phone. As he replaced it, he paused to study the three sparkling faces so crinkly with delight. He could almost hear yesterday’s laughter: burgers spitting on the Weber; flies diving at the potato salad. A college buddy, Mark Hickey, down on business from New York, loosening up after a couple of beers and nostalgic laughter over Dottie Benedict and her major: screwing every Pi Lambda Phi on campus. Jonathan—a five-year old in seventh heaven—getting tossed, shrieking, into the pool, only to come back for just one more. Eleanor, a terribly precocious nine, squealing Oh Daddy, shut up! when he suggested that she and the Hicker made a cute couple. Barbara’s rich body stretched on the warm concrete, her eyelids fluttering between watchfulness of Jonathan and mid-afternoon dozing …

How would what he was about to do change the lives of his family?

Rosen blew out a gust of air, forcing back apprehension regarding tomorrow’s meeting with Hollings. Then he reached down to unlock the large bottom drawer of his desk.

Holy Christ—it was gone! Rosen scattered loose transcripts, directories of local and European KGB Embassy staffers, and packets of double-rubber-banded satellite printouts, searching for the plain manila file. He always kept it locked in here. He dug into the other drawers, knowing it was pointless yet unwilling to concede. Perspiration, chilled by the highly efficient air-conditioning, trickled under his collar as he plowed through years of material accumulated as an analyst for the CIA. A few frantic moments more and he gave up. It just wasn’t there!

Exhaling raggedly, Arnie Rosen squeaked back in his thin-armed swivel chair, staring vacantly at acres of car-splotched parking lot ringed by lushly foliated trees: Langley’s shield against the world’s curious eyes. Nearby, grass steamed in relentless August heat. The view, normally pleasing, gave him no reassurance.

There was no getting around it… no other explanation. Someone had stolen the list of calls made last Tuesday from a public phone at Langley Exxon a mile away. It was evidence to have been added to his main file documenting the actions of Charles Van Damme over the past two years. Evidence categorically proving that the lean, aristocratic Van Damme compromised a cell of Czechoslovakian nationals helping dissidents escape into Austria and, worse yet, would soon hand over specifications for the United States’ most advanced spy satellite to the KGB. Now, only a day away from presenting his evidence to Counterintelligence, after checking every source at his disposal to satisfy himself that Van Damme’s influence didn’t reach that high, Rosen had lost some of his proof. A small part, granted, but how much did you need when you accused the chief of European division of espionage?

Rosen leaned forward, elbows on desk, raking long fingers through curly blond-to-brown hair, working the fingertips into the nape of his neck, releasing a warm rush of blood into the cramped muscles. Suddenly his head snapped upward, face agape. Grabbing for the phone, he punched at his home number … missed; heard a cheerful voice: You have reached a number that is inoperative or no longer in service. Please hang up and … He jabbed the disconnect; aimed more carefully at the elusive buttons. God … the strongbox with the master file: travel itineraries, pictures, expense vouchers—the hard evidence against Van Damme—was in the den. Hidden in the closet, past neatly tied stacks of National Geographic, beneath a host of Eleanor’s discarded pandas, monkeys, and Raggedy Annes.

How could anyone know what Rosen’s innocuous little file contained? He even brought whatever he’d collected in it home every night, just to be safe. Leaving the list of calls was his first mistake. You miserable, stupid … he had to get Barbara! My God, did Van Damme suspect? The receiver rattled maddeningly as his home phone rang seven miles to the East.

*     *     *

Just before the phone rang at 3016 Foxhall Road—a relatively modest home by Washington’s exclusive Wesley Heights standards but sharing the deep-set privacy of its more costly neighbors—the front doorbell chimed. Quite a dilemma for Jonathan Rosen. He had been warned never to answer the front door alone but Mom was showering and Eleanor had told him to stay out of her room or she would kill him and, on top of that, he was anxious to get back to the TV to see if, just this once, Wiley Coyote’s mail-order traps would finally snag the Roadrunner. Then the hall phone started up. Overwhelmed, Jonathan opted for the door. After all, that was real people, not just voices coming out of a plastic thing.

Two large men stood in front of him. Nothing unusual; to Jonathan, all men were large. But it was unusual that they were playing with guns, slipping them from their jackets and pointing them, as they wedged their big shoulders through the door. From off to his right he heard a reassuring Beep, Beep. The Roadrunner had outsmarted old Wiley again. Jonathan’s tiny body catapulted across the room from the fffft of a thirty-eight-caliber bullet driving into his throat.

The two men closed the front door soundlessly, moving farther into the foyer. The shooter, six-foot-two with dull gray eyes and a pointed jaw, nudged the little sprawl of arms and legs with the toe of his shoe, staring indifferently as Jonathan flopped over.

Shrill ringing continued. The phone on a black table to the right was a chrome and plastic replica of the long-necked models of the thirties. Both men stared intently at the instrument. A sudden interruption of the insistent bells could mean that someone had lifted a receiver in another room. It clattered on. Turning to his shorter, stockier companion, the shooter jerked his head toward the living room.

Carefully avoiding the blood pooling across the tiled floor, they flattened themselves on opposite sides of the arched entry and peered inside, silenced weapons at shoulder height. Satisfied that the room was empty, they repeated the procedure for the rest of the downstairs, ending back in the foyer.

Stepping over the spreading red puddle was becoming difficult, but they managed, deftly leaping to the stairs behind. They tiptoed upward, Stocky leading.

*     *     *

Although still early, afternoon commuters already clogged lanes as Rosen jockeyed his Camaro in and out of traffic along George Washington Memorial Parkway. He was oblivious to the cacophony of honks and to fists thrusting from open windows. The entrance to Route 123 … coming up fast. Buffeted by a nonstop chorus of horns, Rosen finessed the Camaro across the right lane, barely catching the curved ramp at the expense of a frantically lurching maroon Cadillac; skidding up the shoulder in a spray of grass and gravel; straightening the fishtailing vehicle in time to run the yield sign at the top.

His frenzy increased. At this point 123 was no more than a single-lane country road whose sudden curves looped precariously through dense underbrush and the unforgiving trunks of massive trees. An unbroken double yellow line tracked its entire length. Unheeding, Rosen passed a semi bearing the logo Friendly Movers; cut tightly back into the truck’s lane, eliciting a monstrous honk from the not-so-friendly driver; slid out past a cocoa Mercedes occupied by an attractive black couple who, simultaneously, flashed him manicured fingers; accelerated around a beaten-up Ford wagon overflowing with hair-pulling, punching kids whose mother flailed at them with her free hand; cutting back seconds before three terrified faces in a blue VW van hurtled by. The van driver’s hand remained frozen to his horn long after …

*     *     *

Eleanor sprawled in a tangle of heart-decorated sheets and pillows. Her lanky legs rose and fell in time to Def Leppard pounding through her Walkman. The door, sporting a full-length glossy of Johnny Dep, crept open. Yanking out the earphones, Eleanor leapt off her bed itching to trash Jonathan for violating her sanctuary. Stocky’s hand shot through the opening choking off her tirade. Powerful fingers crushed her throat, shaking her viciously until her thin neck snapped, before flinging her back into the room like discarded clothes.

*     *     *

The Potomac, limply slipping around the huge rust rocks that pierced its surface as if by saving its energy it could survive the ferocious afternoon heat, flashed beneath Chain Bridge. Soon a broad swatch of rhythmically swaying treetops and a symmetrical, thin bright ribbon of water replaced it. Rosen jabbed his brakes for the sharp right onto Canal Road.

*     *     *

Barbara’s not-so-bad rendition of Evergreen scaled up to a scream as they yanked open the shower curtain. Both men watched mirthlessly as her eyes darted for a way out. Her fingers quivered like insect antennas. They took a moment to appreciate—after all, she was a beautiful woman—then shot her three times, slamming her against the wet tile. Dribbling blood, like wine from a cracked bottle, blended with falling water and spiraled into the tub. Her body slid downward, wet flesh squeaking against porcelain, buttocks blocking the drain, forcing the reddening solution to swirl between her thighs and up against her breasts.

*     *     *

How could things change so fast? You went along years and years with a fairly stable existence—boring sometimes, but predictable, at any rate—then Wham, in one day you were screaming back through a firewall of traffic to save it all! It seemed impossible.

The sound of that monotonous ringing echoed in Rosen’s ears. Over and over. They were supposed to be home. Tonight they were all going to Cousin Barry’s birthday celebration and the kids would be up late. They were supposed to be resting this afternoon. How long had he waited … hoping someone would pick up so he could yell Get out of the house! Run! Go to your mother’s, to your cousin’s … anywhere! He’d never gotten the chance. All he had gotten was that maddening ringing …

*     *     *

Within ten minutes they found the flimsy metal box—no problem for professionals like Stevenson and Craig—and removed the file. They slipped it into a zippered plastic folder that the taller Craig had brought. Passing through the foyer, they sidestepped Jonathan for the last time, opened the door, and strode casually toward the street.

Inside, television cartoons and splattering water competed in the, otherwise, stillness …

*     *     *

Oh God … He was talking out loud now, praying as he swung left onto Foxhall nearly clipping Ralph Mordanski’s silver Volvo. "Please let them be all right! Please let them be away shopping, or playing in the park, or even at the Emergency Room because little John fell and split his lip … anything. Let them laugh at me because I look so worried. Let them tell me how ridiculous I’ve been. Please."

Roaring into the driveway, Rosen fixated on the front door. Barbara’s runt geranium, a bedraggled plant which came back each season with fewer leaves and barely enough petals for identification, sprawled against their wrought-iron railing. The house—long-time friend at the end of not-so-good days—looked cold; forbidding. Not like his house at all. He no longer felt a part of it, nor it of him. His stomach churned as he flung open the Camaro’s door and sprinted for the steps.

Rosen scraped the key back and forth but kept missing the lock. He steadied his hand with the other hand when the door slid a few inches on its own. His stomach convulsed, forcing sour bile into his throat. Barbara never left the door unlocked, even before those child-kidnapping stories had filled the airwaves. And the kids knew better …

For an instant Rosen froze, unable to cross the same doorway he’d joyously entered thousands of times before. Suddenly, he burst through.

His already strained features contorted beyond recognition. With an animal moan, Rosen rushed toward the little pile at the far side of the foyer, skidding on the semidry ooze, crashing into the banister. He lay, gulping air. Blood from a gash on his forehead blinded him. He snarled, pushed off of the floor, doggedly whipping his head side to side. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, he swiped away enough blood to crawl toward his boy. Arnie Rosen gently lifted Jonathan’s blond head. He gaped in disbelief at the mushy hole flowering beneath the perfect little face. As blood rushed back into his eyes, Rosen brought the tiny cheek up to his own, rocking … rocking, silently.

*     *     *

He sat behind his desk snapping bullets into the Glock 9mm semi-automatic. Until now, the gun had merely been a comforting but unused defense against prowlers, kept in Barbara’s night table. Rosen was good with guns and not only because of his training in the service. He had also spent many hours on the Langley small arms range perfecting his pattern shooting and could cluster a tight grouping of shots into the target’s head or torso at a hundred feet. He was solid in his weighting, steady as he extended his weapon in the efficient Weaver stance.

Rosen couldn’t recall how long he’d held Jonathan, or how long he’d wandered through the nightmare upstairs. So much of him was dead.

His bloody sleeves stuck to his forearms. Whose blood? He wasn’t sure, probably a mixture. There was so much … everywhere. His eyes smarted, painfully dry: no more tears left. He rubbed at them, only increasing the burning. The insides of his shoes were wet, uncomfortable; his trouser legs were soaked. He remembered a small lake pouring over the bathroom jam, sopping into the hall rug so that he sloshed as he moved, hollow-eyed, toward what he knew he’d find inside. Knowing hadn’t helped. Hadn’t stopped him from clutching, grabbing, trying to hug life back into Barbara’s dear, wet, slippery body.

All three were together now. Upstairs. Lying in each other’s arms on his and Barbara’s bed. Rosen remembered other times when he came home late to find them asleep in the master bedroom: TV humming, peaceful, the children waiting for Dad to kiss them, lift and shuffle them to their beds. Then the joy of coming back to Barbara. Her sleepy arms wrapping around his neck, all silly words and mumbles, warm breasts pressed against him, a smooth thigh flung over his leg … contented silence, except for her soft breath.

He’d done his best to recreate one of those better times. He’d even tucked the pale blue spread, light and fluffy, seeming to be mostly air, up under their chins. They looked as if they’d watched one of their favorite scary movies, only there were differences this time. They couldn’t be scared anymore … and they were never, never waking up.

Rosen sat across from them in his rocking chair. It was a gift from his fraternity brothers for a successful stint as rush chairman. Best pledge class ever, they’d said. A high-backed version, painted white, with THANKS, ARNIE and, below, PI LAMBDA PHI CORNELL 1977 in bold red letters. Barbara had periodically begged him to store it saying it didn’t fit the beige-and-blue room and he had periodically agreed, but never did. He’d rocked and watched them, rocked and cried, until the tears dried up and he would no longer look at them.

Then Rosen had stopped rocking, walked to the table next to the bed, lifted the gun and box of shells from beneath his TIME and Barbara’s latest William Goldman paperback—she read avidly, in spurts, and this had been Goldman’s turn—scattering golf tees, pencils and coins. Leaving the ravaged drawer ajar, he had wandered out of the room and down the stairs …

Sometime during the process of loading, Arnie Rosen’s brain clicked on. There at his desk, across from the open closet, Ellie’s stuffed animals heaped just inside, the methodical act of installing each bullet revived him. The snap of each cartridge jerked him closer to conscious reality. By the seventh, Rosen could barely force himself to continue. He ached to rush out and finish Van Damme now.

He finally understood, too late. Van Damme couldn’t be stopped by exposure. Not within the Agency, anyway. He was far too powerful, had too many people to protect him; too many to lie for him; too many to kill for him …

The loaded gun slipped from his hands, landing upon the desk with a thunk.

Rosen clawed at his face. What a fool! He thought that he could stop the division chief through channels. Hand over his pitiful little file and be done with it. The magnitude of his misjudgment smashed him like a fist. Suppose someone in Counterintelligence alerted Van Damme? Maybe the head of Counterintelligence, himself? He’d checked, sure, but how could he know what debts were owed, what favors needed repaying? In those circles morality was only a cape cloaking ruthless pragmatism. He’d been kidding himself; playing at detective. Taking time to do things right. Building a case. And what had it gotten him? Rosen’s eyes traveled upward toward the master bedroom.

A sob, the last he presumed he had, forced its way through his taut lips. What a pompous fool, thinking that he could beat Charles Van Damme. There was just one way … kill the bastard!

Rosen lifted the automatic, tugged out the short-sleeved shirt which he had traded for his blood-soaked Van Huesen, slipped the weapon between his belt and the small of his back so that his shirt fell loosely over his fresh slacks. He scooped the additional cartridges, sent them clinking into his pants pocket, rose, smoothed his matted hair, and strode toward the door, yanking a tan windbreaker from the arm of a nearby chair.

As he passed the staircase, Rosen paused, looking upward as if awaiting something. He heard nothing … only the TV in the living room …

Rosen stood there a long time …

Finally, he set his sloping shoulders and turned toward the rear of the house. He would kill Van Damme. But first, he needed to make one stop. He would kill Van Damme after he showed him the duplicate file. Rosen wanted to watch Charles Van Damme’s face—so sharp and arrogant—as he realized that he would be exposed as a traitor and murderer, after all. That would be Rosen’s revenge: watching Van Damme’s monumental ego disintegrate before he died. Maybe the chief of European Division could face death, but one thing Arnie Rosen was a sure of, people like Charles Van Damme could not face disgrace, even if it were posthumous.

Rosen’s face compressed with determination. He decided to use the back door, just in case.

Rosen scanned the leaf-dappled lawn seeking unfamiliar motion in the jagged shadows of oaks and azaleas. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice the barbecue. It hit the concrete patio with a ringing crash. Its rounded top rolled back and forth accentuating the clamor. Rosen crouched, eyes darting furiously, but only the sparrows responded with frenetic twittering. He rose slowly, unconsciously righting the barbecue … stopped midway, transfixed by its charcoal remnants. Yesterday flooded in, playing itself out before he could fight it back. A wonderful, warm, beery, good-friended, great-familied afternoon. How could it all be so clear, yet so irretrievably gone?

Through Rosen’s tears the powdery charcoal appeared laced with diamonds. He gently rested the barbecue upon its spindly legs, then dashed down the grass-choked slate path to his car.

GLASNOST CHAPTER 2

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W ashington’s Union Station, created in classic proportions by renowned architect Daniel Burnham and recently infused with new life by the Redevelopment Corporation, pinked in the waning sunlight. Tentative evening shadows blurred its ornate columns and deep arches.

Rosen stared dismally at lines of cars queuing along the East parking ramp like insects entering a nest. Not for him. He wasn’t about to wait once he had the case. He gunned the Camaro up North Capitol, across H, down 2nd. Just what he wanted: a practically empty construction lot where F dead-ended. He swung through the open wire gates, kicking up dust swirls as he skidded in at an angle and cut the ignition.

Irregular sections of high plywood fence blocked the lot from 2nd Street traffic, leaving one entire end in deep shadow. Rosen scurried across random patches of gravel thudding larger stones against the makeshift fence as he dashed by.

He tramped through the station’s main hall with a hundred others whose footsteps and voices multiplied as they rebounded off of the vaulted ceiling’s golden octagons. The marble floors glowed coldly, except where they had been profaned by candy wrappers and mangled Styrofoam cups. Rosen’s unwelcome companions dwindled as upscale eateries and high-fashion shops seduced them. He was alone by the time he reached the mezzanine.

Rosen exhaled gratefully in the relative peace of the locker area. The shouts and laughter of expectant tourists antagonized him. Smiling faces were an enigma. How could they be preoccupied with such trivialities—where to have dinner or what store to explore next—when his world had evaporated?

He punched in the combination to his locker, slapping in the extra coins that its computerized screen demanded, clicked the small dial, opened the metal door, removed a leather attaché. The locker slammed shut with a tinny clunk.

Rosen rested his case upon the rounded top of a high-tech blue wastebasket. He snapped it open and shuffled through the papers inside, fearful that everything would be there except what he wanted most. The file was intact. Flight numbers, cities, dates, surveillance logs, organized in neatly handwritten rows. Even pictures. It was an exact duplicate of the one taken from his strongbox. Relieved, he closed the attaché and hurried back through the bright phantasmagoria of shops and restaurants.

There was a bank of phones near the main entrance. He rushed past, jerked to a stop, squeezed his eyes shut, drew a monster breath … turned back. It couldn’t wait any longer. They were dead. Period. He had to tell the police. He raised the receiver hoping that the phone would be trashed the way they always were when you needed them. No such luck. The dial tone was clear and strong. Rosen pushed the receiver halfway back, clicking it against the cradle, staring at it … finally drawing it toward him as if it were an armed grenade. He punched 9-1-1 quickly, not giving himself time to think. It would be so permanent after this. Up to now it had been their secret. His, Barbara’s, the kids’. Once it was told, though, there would be no untelling it. Once it was told they would be dead to the entire world… . Not-coming-back dead.

Rosen listened with the greatest sadness that he had ever known as a crisp female voice inquired as to how she might help. Tears—it seemed he still had more after all—traced his cheekbones and lips as he answered. At the end, she asked where he was, many times, her voice more urgent with each request. On her fourth, he hung up.

*     *     *

It was not quite dark, but almost. No life on the construction site where he’d parked except for the brief flash of headlights between gaps in the flimsy wooden walls bordering 2nd Street.

Rosen was just about at the Camaro when they separated from the shadows. C’mon, he heard. Now, man. Git him. They wrenched him from the door handle, grabbing arms and hair, yanking his head back, propelling him, toes scuffing the uneven dirt, toward the shadowy end of the lot past the putrid odor of day-old garbage roasting in summer heat. They slammed his chest against an uncluttered section of wall, driving his breath out with a whoosh. Thudding blows to his kidneys forced out ragged gasps from him. Jagged splinters tore at Rosen’s clothing as he tumbled toward the chalky dust.

They yanked Rosen onto his back. He sprawled, head jammed against the wall, staring up at three teenaged black kids. They hunched forward, weight on the balls of their feet, eyes wild even in the dim light. Rosen didn’t move.

Le’s clean’im, man. Le’s clean’im an’ stick’im. It was the one on the left. Big, scarred, bouncing from one foot to the other, like a dancer feeling out a new routine, flipping a six-inch blade hand to hand, lowering his body with each toss till the flashing point was inches from Rosen’s face.

Rosen fought back the pain, concentrating on the big one’s groin. One more pass with that knife and he might as well go for it. He tensed his right knee, ready to snap the foot up and out. His hands flattened against the ground, which was warm from the day’s heat. Loose gravel gouged his palms.

Cool it, man, the thin kid in the middle hissed, backhanding the other’s blade hand. His eyes were the clearest of the three. Le’s be nahce. No need ta hu’t the man, he he’ps us out. Raht? He crouched, staring into Rosen’s eyes. His own eyes were very white in the growing shadows. Raht? His tone was insistent.

Right … of course. Rosen croaked.

Ya see, we kin’a sho’t, the kid smiled. He had two upper teeth gone, one lower. Rosen was reminded of a skinny jack-o’-lantern. You ga’ money, you okay. You don’, you daid. The kid said it matter-of-factly, as if either option would be all right.

"I have money. Can I show you?" Rosen got a nod. Turning on his right side, he reached back with his left hand and pulled out his wallet.

The big one’s eyes kept darting toward it, then rolling away. Spittle dribbled off of his slack lower lip. His knife slowly inched back toward Rosen.

Rosen held the wallet out. There was a touch of warm flesh as the middle kid grabbed it.

The third, tall, in a brown raincoat with sleeves way too short for his gangling arms, peered intently over the middle one’s shoulder.

Rosen pushed up on his hands, easing away from the wall. The back of his head flashed hot where its coarse ridges had pressed in.

They dug anxious fingers into Rosen’s wallet, bulging it open. Pictures, credit cards, ID’s flapped to the ground. They pried at slots and pockets, finally pitching it across the alley as they counted, recounted, shaking their heads, anger whitening their eyes.

Not ’nuf, man, the middle one pronounced.

Rosen tensed.

The big one yelled "Yeah," and tipped the blade downward, his eyes, snapping into focus at the prospect of violence, were hard and bright, his tongue flicking, his body lowering for a straight thrust as Rosen, raging from the afternoon’s pent-up hatred, kicked out at the bending knee, straightening it, pushing through until there was a satisfying crack. The big one cartwheeled back. His mouth slammed shut mid-shriek as he flattened against a tall stack of two-by-fours. His blade sailed high, reflecting splashes of light, clattering, plastic handle splintering as it bounded off of a cement crusted wheelbarrow.

Silence—

—except for the big one’s soft moans and the startled breathing of the others.

Rosen pivoted on his left hand. He was forty-five degrees from the ground bracing his legs to thrust up at them when a kick caught him on the left side of the jaw, jamming his head back. He fought to clear his mind as he continued rolling to give himself maneuvering room. They lunged after him, sneakers clomping hollowly on the dirt. Rosen banged into a garbage can. It rocked forward, spilling its contents onto his head and face. Ripe melon seeped under his shirt, the seeds sticking to his chest. He swiped sticky substances from his eyes as he lurched to his feet, his hand lodging deeply in the can’s soggy contents as he fought for balance.

They came wide at him: one from each side; Raincoat Man clutching a previously hidden baseball bat, while the one who had grabbed his wallet wielded a Jim Bowie Special big enough to intimidate a grizzly.

Rosen crossed his hands, palms down, elbows out, trying to anticipate the direction of the first swipe. That kick had really gotten his jaw. It was killing him. Nerve endings up his cheek and even into his gums pulsed raw heat. Christ, it had been years since he had served on the Special Forces. He wasn’t a damned two-handed killing machine anymore. He was in okay shape, but three guys at once? Well, two now … forget it! He had to take care of this. No punks were keeping him from Van Damme. Rosen crouched, weighting his feet evenly …

They did the smart thing: they both came at once. Rosen threw up his left arm. The bat skittered along it and off his shoulder, smacking into the plywood wall with a vibrating wonk. The monster knife darted back as its owner easily danced out of range of Rosen’s sidekick to the head. Frustrated, Rosen bared his teeth. My damned legs aren’t limber enough to stretch that high anymore or I would have had him.

Rosen never found out if he could take them. Footsteps thumped in from the street. Wallet Taker and Raincoat Man looking at each other, then at their buddy still heaped across the woodpile, pounded off through the shadows toward one of the multiple openings in the wall.

Rosen spun, hands tensed.

Two men, dressed in neat suits and fashionably wide ties, trotted up.

Rosen released his breath; dropped his hands; settled back on his heels.

You all right? We heard noises from our car. The taller one spoke.

There was a moan. Rosen peered through the shadows at the downed mugger. His eyes were open now, glazed, his right shin angling forward at the knee.

What the hell happened? The taller one gawked at the kid. He try to rob you?

He and two others.

The men’s eyes darted in both directions.

They’re gone. Ran away when they heard you. Rosen dabbed his jaw gently with his fingertips, then repeated the gesture along its length, grimacing at the contact yet perversely unable to stop till he had tested the entire area.

They got you there? The tall one peered closely. It’s turning color. He stared over Rosen’s shoulder, intent on the shadows behind. We’d better get out of here. They may have friends. At this, the second man also squinted nervously into the dusk. You have a car? the first one asked.

Rosen nodded.

We’ll walk you, if it’s close. Otherwise, we’ll drive you.

The shorter one tried to take Rosen’s arm, but Rosen shook him off. I’m okay. It’s right over there. Thanks for the help … and the escort, he added quickly to avoid offending. Rosen stooped by the garbage can whose contents he’d scattered. He was relieved to find his attaché still wedged between it and a second can. He yanked it out by the handle, using the side of his hand to skim melon rinds from its surface. The expensive leather was badly scuffed.

No problem, said the tall one. The two flanked Rosen like bodyguards, glancing toward him every few feet as if they expected him to keel over. We’d better call the cops about that kid. He looked in pretty rough shape, the tall one called across to his friend. Whatever you did to him … you did pretty good.

Rosen tuned out the man’s chatter. It was meant to comfort him but it only succeeded in increasing his anxiety. All that he could think of was getting his hands around the wheel and speeding off. Just about dark now. Rosen’s Bulova, the only unmarked part of him, said 8:21. Good. Langley would have cleared out hours ago. Only the moles in their glass lined computer rooms—the weird people who worked all night, and who, Rosen always imagined, came to their front doors blinking like owls if visited during daylight—would be there, along with the skeleton night staff communicating with operatives in embassies on the other side of the world. And Security, of course. There was always lots of that at Langley. But it didn’t matter. Rosen wasn’t going to try to escape. He’d probably call Security, himself, after he’d finished. Sit there and wait for them. Maybe in Van Damme’s chair … behind his goddamned antique desk. That desk that cost sixty times what standard issue desks used by flunkies like Rosen cost. Van Damme’s whole goddamned office was like that. Vases, Impressionist paintings, Louis XIV chairs … all out of his pocket. Actually, Van Damme’s society wife’s pocket, according to rumor. Van Damme’s office was fancier than the director’s, for God’s sake. And nobody knew that, for all his fancy furniture and society connections, he was a goddamned traitor! At least grunts like Rosen, with their crappy government issue metal desks and metal chairs and metal bookcases, were loyal to their country. Some joke!

They were finally alongside his car.

Want me to hold that while you open the door? the tall one asked, nodding toward Rosen’s attaché.

No thanks. Rosen slipped the attaché under his arm while he fished for his keys.

You sure you’re all right? You want us to get you to a hospital?

You c … c … could have a c … concussion. Never hurts to h … ha … have it ch … ch … checked. It was the first time the shorter one spoke. In addition to the stutter, his voice sounded gravelly, pained, as if the throat had been damaged. And Rosen hadn’t seen too many crew cuts like he had except on old timers in the military, yet this guy couldn’t be more than thirty-five. Interesting … but all Rosen wanted was for the two to leave. They were only trying to help, but their hanging around was driving him crazy.

Thanks. Really. I’m okay. If anything bothers me later, I’ll get it checked out. Rosen half smiled, leaving the keys dangling from the Camaro’s door as he raised his right hand in a mock oath.

All right, laughed the tall one. You proved you can take care of yourself.

Rosen slid in, grimacing as he bent to navigate the low seat.

The tall one’s face went stone cold as he surveyed the entrance to the construction area. Satisfied, he nodded to Crewcut, who stepped between him and Rosen, cocked his elbow, mashed its point into the back of Rosen’s neck.

Nice shot, Stevenson. Craig helped Stevenson manhandle the limp body into the back seat. That’s going to leave a helluva mark … if you didn’t already kill him.

So f … f … fuckin’ what? rasped Stevenson. The shape this g … guy’s gonna be in when we’re done, no one’s g … gonna notice a few extra bruises. Pull that seat down so I can g … get him all the way back.

*     *     *

Twenty minutes later they were on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway driving leisurely toward I-495, Stevenson in the Agency Taurus, Craig behind the wheel of Rosen’s Camaro. Craig switched on WXTRA. Oldies. Beat the hell out of the crap that passed for music now. Fuckin’ screaming freaks with words you couldn’t make out and wouldn’t want to if you could. Give him The Bee Gees or Dylan any day. Cat Stevens was good, before he went nuts and became some kind of a Muslim. None of the assholes today could hold a candle to any of them. And that fuckin’ rapping! Craig made a face.

He glanced at Rosen’s attaché. Its leather handle swung with every swerve of the car. Van Damme had been right: there was a second file. All they had had to do was play it cool and Rosen had gone right for it, like a dog after a bone. Hadn’t even waited for the cops, assuming Rosen even called them. Damned if Van Damme wasn’t always right. Craig pounded the wheel in time to Yellow Submarine as Maryland’s exits popped in and out of his headlight beams. Not much farther… . Boy, those Beatles could sing. Not like the assholes today.

GLASNOST CHAPTER 3

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C raig glanced back at Rosen. The guy was still out. Good. Not that Craig couldn’t clock him again if he had to, but this made things easier. He felt bad about Rosen’s kid. Cute little guy, but you couldn’t leave loose ends: they always came back to bite you in the ass. Craig checked the rearview for Stevenson. The Taurus was thirty yards behind, holding even, its headlights haloing wisps of Rosen’s hair through the rear window.

Craig studied the slumped figure. Looked like a regular enough guy but why would anybody be crazy enough to steal an Eyes Only file? Usually for money. Maybe an expensive honey stashed in some fancy apartment? Rosen’s wife sure had been some damn fine piece of ass, but to some guys strange stuff always looked better. Whatever, this fucker was dead meat now.

Craig slowed, signaled, slid the Camaro over in time to catch a long, climbing exit ramp. By the time he reached the top, four or five other sets of headlights were snaking their way up, splashing random sections of foliage with imperfect circles of light. Good. Just enough traffic to do the job.

The area to his right was woodsy. Another plush little Maryland suburb with lots of space and plenty of trees between homes and road. He pulled deep onto the shoulder, cut the ignition and waited for the Taurus.

*     *     *

Charles Van Damme fiddled with a reproduction of Faberge’ Egg, one of the few non-authentic art objects in his large office. Of course, he had the original at home, but that was in a solid oak case with hidden wires connecting its glass top to a twenty-four hour security service. Leaving the pearl and jeweled object on his desk overnight would have been a stiff test even for the handpicked Langley maintenance crew. For the thousandth time, Van Damme marveled at the minuscule village set in the confines of its gold shell, exactly the size of an egg, before gently clicking it shut. He leaned back, then swiveled to view his latest acquisition, a small Seurat for which he outbid a corporate president, a Persian businessman and a well-known television personality, at private auction. He stared intently at the profusion of dots blending into the silhouettes of delicate strollers in a sunny Paris park.

Charles—he tolerated Charlie, or other such overly familiar abbreviations, only from those with sufficient influence to justify such distasteful liberties—was tall, over six foot four and rail thin, his Saville Row suits hand tailored to accentuate what little shoulder he had, the pants tapered to avoid bagginess around his meager thighs. He clasped pale hands behind his overly large head, intertwining the long, delicate fingers for support. His hair and pencil mustache were jet black, any traces of gray obliterated by daily applications of tint; his sallow skin was indicative of one who considers the outdoors a means of getting from one indoor location to the next. His eyes, surprisingly soft for his sharp, narrow features, alternated from blue to gray, depending on the reflection from the Tiffany lamp to the left of a massive, leather-trimmed blotter that dominated the desk’s center.

Van Damme swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees toward the sprawling window behind his desk. Flecked by the lights lining Langley’s extensive lawns and the occasional wavering beams of late hour parking lot entrants, the black glass mirrored his office. He moved closer so that his own features reflected back. An involuntary smile grew as his upper lip rose like a stage curtain over a perfect row of large, white teeth. He stretched his long arms high above his head, resettled them across his narrow chest.

Everything was going smoothly. Craig had called his private number five minutes ago saying: "The party we were to meet, and his luggage, is being escorted to his embarkation point." Even if the cryptic message could be tapped, an eventuality made virtually impossible by both the Company car phone and Van Damme’s own electronic scrambler, it would be meaningless to an outsider.

Of course there was a second file. He had been positive there would be: Rosen’s pitiful attempt to protect himself. Maybe a bargaining chip to save his life. Van Damme shook his head. That this nobody … this bug … this analyst should try to stop him. It was actually laughable.

Even if this Rosen had stayed home; hadn’t panicked and led them right to the file; had called the police instead, the outcome would have been the same. A nearby van would have intercepted his call with Craig and his contract help—Stevenson Van Damme thought, although he didn’t care to know anything about contract people—appearing as plainclothes police minutes later. True, they might have had to work on Rosen a bit, but either way, they would have gotten the second file. He had covered all his contingencies … as usual.

Suddenly Van Damme frowned back at his reflection, thin eyebrows squatting upon his sharp nose. How had this nobody from Analysis, the most useless group in all of Langley, gotten so close? It was a question that had bothered him from the beginning. Was it intercepted communiqués from his KGB contact? Impossible. The system of European drops was foolproof. Maybe a breach in the transmissions back to Moscow? Dangerous, if that …

Van Damme first discovered Rosen’s intrusions when it came to his attention that someone was meddling with his travel vouchers. He hadn’t known that it was Rosen, only that someone was pulling up records of his trips over the past two years. Very cautiously, granted, with decent enough covers: requests for airline receipts, supposedly to be used for costs study by Travel Coordination and rechecks of totals by the accounting people. Rosen’s efforts had been clever, individually, but excruciatingly obvious once a pattern had emerged. Van Damme had identified Rosen within a week.

That hadn’t been enough, though. He had had to know what other evidence Rosen had so that no one else would be able to follow his trail. Part of Van Damme’s rage, although he always made a point of keeping his emotions under control, was at himself for having slipped-up.

It had been hard to refrain from killing the meddler immediately but Van Damme had forced himself to wait. Instead, he had ordered the little bastard watched. His justification was that Rosen’s questionable psychological profile—easy enough to change Rosen’s personnel records to show signs of instability—made him a security risk. Three weeks later to the day, Rosen, now under surveillance, was caught sneaking the list of phone calls from that miserable gas station (the damned odor from those smelly pumps always gave Van Damme a headache) into his desk.

A file hidden in Rosen’s lower drawer. Imagine! It was so obvious that Van Damme’s people hadn’t looked there initially, concluding that not even an analyst could be that stupid. And, if the rest of Rosen’s evidence wasn’t in his desk, then where else would someone with so little imagination keep it but at home? All Rosen’s goodies for his meeting with tight-ass Hollings on Tuesday—good thing Van Damme had contacts in Counterintelligence who owed him big and alerted him—in a nice tidy little metal box in his closet. Of course, Rosen would have had to die before tomorrow’s meeting, regardless, but it was so much simpler using him to locate the second file, first.

Not that there was much time left for anyone else to pick up where Rosen had left off. Still … Van Damme never took chances. Nothing—nothing—must stop the Indigo II transfer. It was the culmination of two years’ planning. First, wooing Karkov, an influential hard-liner and the KGB’s highest army liaison. Next, compromising low level Czechoslovakian assets to establish good faith—when you played poker with the KGB, you had to ante up. Even accelerating his agenda as the improbable dream of glasnost gained momentum.

Now arrangements were nearly complete. In less than three weeks, Gruhaber would have the optical data. Then Van Damme could offer the revolutionary satellite, capable not only of the most minuscule high-resolution imagery but also of pinpointing missile strikes within its three-dimensional quadrants, to the Other Side.

He pondered his years of frustration as press hungry politicians interfered, leaking information, destroying morale. Snooping dilettantes who didn’t understand or care about national security unless they were undermining it to enhance their worthless careers. Impotence: that was what they caused. Impotent leaders. Impotent missions. The Agency had become one limp dick! Well, not anymore—not for him, anyway. Power was necessary to protect and nurture a system. Without the power to protect itself, no political system survived. The old-guard communists understood power; were going to use it again, magnificently, once they got past their glasnost and perestroika nonsense. And Indigo was the price of his admission into that world … into power: the power to act fully and decisively to protect. He had to have it. And when he soon got his opportunity, Charles Van Damme would make the most of it, by God!

The division chief stared at the window. His wolf’s smile reflected back. He spun toward his desk. Craig would bring the files soon. Then he would figure out how Rosen had known and close the book on it, once and for all. He ran a slender fingertip along his moustache as he lifted a report on yet another of the new wave of ex-communist presidential candidates, this time in Rumania.

*     *     *

Don’ wan’ no more, Rosen sputtered, as Craig tipped the half-empty fifth of Cutty Sark toward his lips.

Wider growled Craig.

Stevenson pressed stubby fingers into the hinge of Rosen’s jaw, forcing his mouth open to another flood of burning liquid.

Rosen’s throat constricted as he gagged, sending the scotch streaming over his chin, down his neck and onto his soaked shirt. The rest flowed along his tilted face, some into his nose, hot and suffocating, some into his right eye, the stinging of his nose minor compared to that burning agony… . Rosen couldn’t move. His ankles were tied to his wrists. His back arched painfully in the Camaro’s tiny rear seat. Stevenson, squeezed in next to him, pressed his jaw open on Craig’s command. Stevenson’s breath was sickeningly sweet, like he had just swallowed a